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POEM, ^ 



SELZVERBU IK 



TAUMTOH, 

SEPTEMBER I6th, A. D. 1807, 



AT THE 



ANNIVERSARY ELECTION 



OF THE 



FMILAJVMRIAJV SOCIETY. 



BY DAVID BENEDICT. 
^l 






!SB 



BOSTON: 
BELCHER & ARMSTRONG, PRINTERS, 

ifO, 70y STATEmSTREET, 



At the annual meeting of the PniiANvntAS Society, 
hoi den at Taunton^ September I6th, A. D. 1807. 

Voted J that Brothers Thompson Miller^ Samuel 
Deane and Lemuel Williams^ be a committee to present 
the thanks of the Society to Brother David Benedict, for 
his excellent Poem, thi^ daij pronounced, and request a copy 
#f the same for the press. 

A true Copy from the Records. 

JOHN B. WIGHT, Chirographer. 



Pbilandrijn Brothers^ 

The Poem this day pronounced is humbly submitted t9 
your disposal, 

DAVID BENEDICT 



A POEM, 



Forgetful man amidst life's busy cares, 
And fluctuation of terrene affairs, 
Immers'd profoundly in a sea of dreams, 
Or towering •high amidst his airy schemes, 
Foregoes the present, and forgets the past, 
And speeds his passage o'er life's dreary waste ; 
Enquiring chiefly after things unseen. 
Still looks before to view the opening scene, 
Short liv'd at most,- and in his best estate, 
His strength and beauty of a transient date, 
His scanty sands in quick succession fall. 
And death, grim death his pris'ner soon will call. 
Devoid of books to lengthen out his span, 
And aid the memory of forgetful man. 
All facts recorded on th' historick page, 
All useful labors of the toiling sage. 
His observations on the boundless skies 
Or those perform'd bymicroscopick eyes, 
The flights of poets through wide fancy's field. 
Or grave instructions which their labors yield. 



The pleasing patterns form'd on virtue's plan, 

Those guiding models of erroneous man, 

The lives of heroes in the paths of truth, 

Examples worthy of both age and youth, 

The deeds of those who folly's course have run, 

Which point to all the ruin all should shun, 

All useful maxims of preceding days. 

All lessons pointing to fair wisdom's ways, 

All meditations of discerning heads. 

Which long have slumber'd in their dusty beds, 

The stores of knowledge gather'd from all climes. 

All kingdoms, empires, nations, men and times ; 

The wealth in countless lib'ries now combin'd, 

Recorded only in th' unstable mind. 

Like pleasing figures dra\^ n in yielding sand, 

Would be eras'd by time's destroying hand, 

The sweeping waves would smooth the letter'd shorCj^ 

And waft the lessons to be seen no more. 

Man and his works, his virtues and his narne, 

His wide researches, and his deeds of fame. 

Descend to earth inyolv'd in pitchy gloom, 

And sable darkness of the silent tomb. 

No dull inscription o'er his dusty grave, 

One trace of all his majesty can save ; 

Not Herculaneum when Vesuvius roar'd, 

And o'er its towers the burning lava pour'd, * f 

Was so obscur'd by ruin's direful frown. 

Nor in destruction sunk so deeply down. 



Such waste of labor time must surely show, 
Such shades of darkness cast on all below, 
If letters were not, nor the writing art, 
Nor books these stores of knowledge to impart. 
Books grant. the cause of information aid, 
To save the treasures from oblivion's shade. 
Books hold the basis of fair science's seat. 
Here all her " rays of information" meet ; 
Books form a channel, permanent and strong, 
Where streams of knowledge gently glide along ; 
Books, like Egyptian pyramids, will show 
The toil of ages, and their folly too ; 
Books stand mausoleums of all former days, 
The lasting piles of monumental praise ; 
Books form a telescope thro' which we scan 
All ages past, and all the works of man ; 
Books, like a mirror facing to all climes, 
Reflect the Ukeness of all former times. 
Here, as in some commercial, wealthy port. 
The various nations of the globe resort. 
The grand emporium and deposit where, 
Returning voyagers bring their stores of ware ; 
This Theban city, with her hundred gates. 
With open arms for ev'ry trav'iler waits :, 
Her brilliant portals shining from afar. 
Invite all realms her boundless wealth to share. 

But good perverted soon becqmcs a curse ; 
The greater blessing makes the plague still worse; 



And wo-born man, in all below the skies, 
Finds many blanks to one substantial prize. 

Some few, 'tis hop'd, of good design are found. 
Among the authors who so much abound,. 
Whose leading aim in what they venture forth, 
Is to present us books of solid worth ; 
To clear the weeds and cultivate the mind, 
And be of use and profit to mankind. 
But these in modern times, when verse runs wide, 
And prose fantastick seeks on verse to stride, 
When vice on virtue casts a scornful frown, 
And seeks to level all her bulwarks down, 
When pamper'd pleasure arrog-ates the rein, 
And sordid Mammon urges for his gain, 
TIio* lies abound — one thing can't be untrue, 
This class of authors are extremely few. 

Some write for praise, — ^and some, whatever pretence, 
Engage in scribbling to obtain some pence. 
Malicious slander, and the dregs of spleen, 
Embellish'd nonsense, and the tale obscene, 
Intended only to make folly grin. 
And rouse corruption, which still lurks within, 
These hungry scribblers with their swift address, 
Ten thousand volumes hurry to the press ; 
Licentious printers gaping for their pay, 
And starving venders, profligate as they, 



Dispatch the trifles thro' their filthy hands, 

Which swarm like Egypt's locusts o'er the land* 

From Askelon the mournful sound withhold, . 

Nor let the woful tale in Gath be told. 

With wit, and judgment, and with common sense, 

And such like things an author may dispense ; 

That heads as brainless as old wither'd scalps, 

And fancy frigid as the snow on Alps, 

An ass's fervor, and proportion'd speed, 

Pen, ink, and paper, and ten books to read, 

From such supplies the publick views at once, 

A learned work compos'd by Mr. Dunce. 

The swarming thousands who can read and write, 

Before the publick bend their eager flight. 

With itching fingers each inscribes his name^ 

With ardent wishes for an author's fame. 

Or boy, or maid, or husband, or good wife, 

Each scribbler plund'ring for the means of life, 

From other's labors all his aid derives, 

And begs or steals the food on which he lives. 

So scaly gamesters, who survey the flood. 

Devour each other for their daily food ; 

The great pursue and overtake the small, 

And huge Leviathan consumes them all. 

Time was, when authors could new thoughts invent. 

Nor rest in aid which predecessors lent ; 

But fancy now has reach'd her utmost bound, 

Or tir'd of flights ha* ilutter'd to the ground. 



8 

Each animal that lives, or wild, or tame, 

All birds and fishes, of whatever name, 

Each fond domestick, and each beast of prey. 

Which roams at random, over nature's way. 

From grisly monsters who command the wood, 

To those who hold the empire of the flood ; 

Each winding reptile, in wide nature found, 

Each puny emmet crawling on the ground, 

Rocks, hills, and vales, and mountains, floods and seas. 

And fruits, and flowers, and plants, and shrubs and trces^ 

From Lebanon's high cedars, proud, and tall, 

To the small hyssop springing from the wall ; 

All apt allusions nature can produce, 

Have oft been sought for metaphorick use. 

But can it be in this inventive age, 

When ev'ry hamlet has its learned sage, 

When patent-rights are swarming o'er our plains, 

For wise inventions of mechanick brains ; 

When new-found nostrums in profusion spread, 

To heal the sick, and almost raise the dead ; 

When thro' the tube man visits worlds remote, 

And Air-Balloons in empty ether float, 

When such progression marks each neighb'ring sphere^ 

Shall languid fancy fall so in the rear ? 

And times of old so clumsy in design. 

In bold invention modern times outshine ? 

Shame to the writer that his barren quill. 

Should travel retrogade, or else stand still. 



The field in which inventive fancy plays, 
Has been explor'd, perchance, in former days ; 
But other causes, candor must allow, 
Obstruct invention, and prevent it now. 
To use the thoughts which rest upon our shelves, 
Is more convenient than to think ourselves* 
We trace the author o'er the rugged steep, 
And lay our own invention down to sleep ; 
What need have we for treasures far to roam, 
When such abundance waits our call at home ? 

Unhappy man ! by anxious friends address'd, 
And much against his better judgment press'd, 
To publish forth wh^t he had deem'd unfit. 
So void of profit, and so poorly writ. 
But withering age and time's destroying hand 
Will soon expel these trifles from the land ; 
Devouring worms and moths, with friendly deed, 
As if commissioned on this trash to feed. 
These loads of lumber shortly will destroy. 
And rid the world of many a worthless toy. 

The poet dies — who charmed the world so long, 
With all the grace and harmony of song ; 
Some friend when living, now befriends the dead, 
And seeks to twine the laurel round his head. 
Like monks repairing to some gloomy haunt, 
To search the relicks of some new-found saint, 



10 

The sage appraiser riitnmages around, 
And gathers up what remnants may be found. 
Implores applauses on his friend's great name, 
And gives the signal for posthumous fame. 
As the thin cloud above the mountain floats. 
The scatter'd hues go sailing o'er the notes ; 
A spacious margin helps t' extend the size. 
And swell the value of th' intended prize ; 
The scanty couplets sparingly arrang'd, 
As if divorc'd from each, seem much estrang'd. 
Or good or bad, in this rare bookish age. 
The motly mass is ventur'd on the stage. 
But when the work appears of solid worth, 
And gen'ral praise attends its coming forth. 
Some Gilpin's frolick, with his heedless horse, 
Or useless story of a bootless course, 
A merry tale, but being void of sense, 
Alloys the whole, and causes just offence. 

Sonorus writes in such a lofty strain. 
My ears recoil, my head reclines with pain ; 
For common organs surely cannot brook - 
Such constant connonade throughout a book. 
No thund'ring term evades his piercing ken ; 
Great, sounding words seem swarming round his pcB. 
Inwrapp'd in sound, the evanescent sense, 
Has not arriv'd, or else departed hence. 



11 

The most phlegmatick sure must feel some pab, 
And weep, or laugh, to look on verse msane; 
But 'tis a sight more piteous still and sad, 
When sober prose grows raving, and runs mad 

His ardent head on revolutions bent, 
His eyebrows low'ring with sad discontent, 
Surcharged with spleen, with flashes in his face, 
And much compassion for the human race, 
The lev'Uer censures, scolds, harangues and writes^^ 
And warmly strives to set the world to rights. 
These cruel laws, the scourges of the times, 
To punish frailties, or what they call crimes ; 
These hateful forms, or civil or divine, 
Restraining man from freedom's fair design ; 
These tedious sabbaths, and unmeaning rites. 
Where bigots meet to hear the parson's flights ; 
These slavish chains impos'd on man and wife, 
To hold them one throughout the course of life ; 
Such tyrant customs 'wake his direful frown; 
These are the things he seeks to level down. 
But well aware the virtuous and the wise ; 
Will all his ranting censure and despise, 
The gilded dream among the crowd is thrown, 
A bait for hearts congenial with his own. 
So each prolifick tenant of the flood 
Forsakes the deep to spawn upon the mud. 



But yet, perhaps, this snarling garretteer, 

May find his thoughts proceed more sound and clear; 

The laws he censures may be found of use, 

To keep his head safe, or correct abuse ; 

If not, 'tis hop'd that Luna, in her wane. 

May heal the phrenzy of his moon-struck brain. 

I cannot bear the sight of yonder pile, 
My spleen is mov'd with a disgustful smile ; 
My patience fails with the incessant jar 
Of school-divines in controversial war. 
These quibbles, cavils, censures, puns and flings, 
Morose, and childish, harsh, and bitter things ; 
These Hebrew, Latin, Arabick, and Greek, 
Decide a point as Doctors bid them speak ; 
Distorted texts to aid a thousand creeds, 
Warp'd by the wrangler as his fancy leads. 
Imperious dogmas thunder'd forth in vain. 
Are gather'd up, and thunder'd back again. 
And loud anathemas, toss'd to and fro, 
From post to post in sad succession go. 
Confebsions, Kubricks, Liturgies, and bulls, 
The froih of shaven heads, or mitre'd skulls, 
Diversely drawn, with fiery ardor flash, 
And stun your ears with their perpetual clash. 
From him who sits in Rome's pontifick chair, 
And sways the sceptre of his holy care, 



IS 

To poor Jemima,* balk'd in her design, 

Or Anna Lease,t who taught the dance divine, 

Arch-bishops, prelates, bishops great and small, 

And metropolitans, and priests, and all. 

Each disputator takes the point as giv'n 

That his sound creed is own'd and blest of Heaven. 

Should some bold text bear down with dreaded^ weight) 

And thwart the wrangler in his hot debate, 

Or else appear to lack some needed part, 

Or not accord exactly with his heart, 

Interpolations and retrenchments show. 

To what sad lengths a disputant will go. 

A nev/ translation for some wise pretence, 

With small additions and a different sense. 

Each heedless term is chas'd thro' flood and field, 

Till to his standard, all are said to yield. 

But should he doubt or entertain a fear. 

That after all the point is not quite clear, 

Sufiicient light 'tis easy to obtain, 

From other books, or sacred, or profane, 

To set the subject in the clearest view, 

And prove his faith beyond a question true. 

Licentious freedom men will dare to take 

With God's own word for their own phrenzy's sake. 

Let hair-brain'd scribblers make their furious slant, 
And barren heads pour forth bombastick rant, 

* Jemima Wilkinson. <^ The Elect Lady among the Shakers. 



14 

Let dreaming zealots soar in airy flight, 
And big-otry with gall her dogmas write^ 
All meteor-like emit a transient glare^ 
Then sink again, and settle in depain 

A class of writings meet my mournful view, 
Than these more smiling, and more fatal too ; 
More smooth and complaisant, but more perverse, 
More numerous far, and a more dreadful curse. 
The slimy plagues like Egypt's frogs pervade 
The prince's palace, and the peasant's shade. 
Ye soft devisors of this poisonous ware, 
Design 'd to make tlie gay and thoughtless stare. 
Whose oily pens unthinking youth beguile,^ 
With all th' adornments of embellish'd style ; 
Who plot and plan, and read iuid ramble on. 
True to the path in which your guides have gonc^ 
And when your tale of dissipation's told, 
Name it a Novel, tho' the trash be old. 



• Were the wholfe number of novels, says Dr. Miller, which the ag'^. 
tias produced, divided into a thousand fiarts, it is probable that ^ve hun- 
dred of these parts would be found so contemirtibly frivolous, as to render 
the perusal of them a criminal waste of time. — Of the remaining ^ve 
hundred parts. Jour hundred and ninety nine may be considered as positivelj 
seductive and corrupting in their tendency. They make virtue ap- 
pear conte uptible, and vice attractive, honorable, and triumphant Of 
the greater portion of the one thousandth part, the most favorable account 
that can be given is, that they are innocent and amuting composition^.," 
Miiler's Jietr»spect, Vol. 2. p. 74^76. 



Yc who have caught this epidemick ail, 

Whose fingers itch to weave a sniv'iling tale ; 

Ye tinkhng novelists, who chase a round 

Of sobbing fripp'ry, and unmeaning sound ; 

Ye so'Ty painters of this world of strife, 

Whose airy pictures of unreal life 

Set imitating thousands on the strain, 

To gain a point which Nature cannot gain. 

Ye smooth apologists for ev'ry sin, 

And lustful appetite, which reigns within, 

Who picture vice in all its smiHng forms. 

Not in repulsive, but attractive charms. 

As you would dare the hellish task presume, 

To give your poison gilded with perfume ; 

Ye sage reformers of this vicious age. 

Like wanton mountebanks, who skip the stage, 

All you devise — a rare reform indeed. 

Makes vice triumphant, and scorn'd virtue bleed* 

Your morals, like a pardon from the state, 

Might be of use, did they not come too late. 

Were I commission'd to devise a mode. 
To rid the land of this infectious brood. 
Your foul productions should be sought with care^ 
And all collected the same fate to share, 
Save here and there a Waktfitrld in the crew, 
(Since 'mongst the throng of these are found a few ;^ 
Devouring flames should not your toys despoil, 
Kor leave their aiihes to pollute the soil. 



16 

A ship — ^but should not one the pests contain, 

A squadron, should transport them from the main ; 

Indignant winds should waft them from the shore, 

To distant regions to be seen no more : 

Not to New- Holland, Falkland, or Cayenne,* 

Nor any realm inhabited by man. 

The base collection, nature's curse and shame, 

Meet for no use, but the sulphureous flame, 

Let some Norwegian whirlpool overwhelm, 

And land them safely in the nether realm ; 

The foaming vortex o'er the cargo close, 

And send it down to Hades, whence it rose. 

Enchanted castles, castles in the air, 

Gigantick phantoms, pygmies in despair. 

Ideal spells, and all the ghastly band 

Of knights and wizards of fam'd fairy land, 

Romantick tales pack'd in an air-balloon. 

Should be sent off directed to the moon. 

These empty dreamers I no more pursue, 
But turn my eyes to a more pleasing view ; 
Tir'd of the trump'ry, and the stuff I've seen^ 
I seek retirement from the motly scene, 
O blest retreat of industry and toil ! 
From this luxuriant, but penurious soil. 
Safe from within to view the scribbling race. 
For gilded toys pursue an endless chase, 

* Places of banishment. 



17 

Whilst all their lumber 's carefully supprest, 
Save what nuiy show the folly of the rest. 

Were it not sin to envy earthly bliss, 
I, most of all, should surely envy his, 
Who biest by nature with a studious mind, 
Retentive mem'ry, and a taste refin'd ; 
Whose happy fortune, in this transient state, 
Was duly cast between the small and great, 
With books supply'd, a welUselected store, 
In such abundance he should ask no more. 

Now poets please him with familiar strains. 
Now sportive fancy sails th' ethereal plains ; 
Here sober fiction speaks some moral truth. 
To groaning age^ or inexperienc'd youth ; 
There some discerning, scientifick sage. 
Conducts his footsteps o'er the civil page ; 
With astronomick aid, he flies afar, 
And sees what worlds encircle ev'ry star ; 
Here metaphysicks opens her profound, 
There he delights to tread th' historick round ; 
With philosophick sages he explores 
The depths of nature, and her boundless stores. 
The works of art, the scientifick round. 
And all the treasures searching man has found. 
There sacred truths in heav'nly beaut v shine, 
And spread before him lessons all divine, 



18 

To teach his heart to glow with holy love, 
And land him safely in the realms above. 
His books, collected with discerning taste. 
Enlarge his mind, and yield a rich repast. 

Above them all in merit, and true worth. 
With all its native lustre beaming forth, 
Appears the book, Jehovah hath reveal'd. 
Where future scenes are open'd, and unseaPd ; 
Here man beholds his origin and end, 
And the dread day to which all mortals tend ; 
Here in a glass he views, beyond debate. 
The sad debasement of his fallen state ; 
Here too, he reads with pleasure in his eyes, 
The boundless grace and goodness of the skies ; 
This guides his feet while destined hqre to roam. 
The chart of life, the pledge of joys to come. 

Ye skeptick quibblers, ye deistick throng, 
Who choose to rove as passion leads along. 
Work all your engines, to put out the blaze. 
Which casts its light, m your unwelcome face ; 
And scoiF at him, who loaded with disgrace, 
Expir'd in groans to save a ruin'd race ; 
And mock the day, the awful day at hand. 
When countless myriads at his bar shall stand, 
And there receive from his tremendous throne, 
The joyful welcome, or eternal frown. 



3477-155 
Lot 69 



19 

Your very ravings prove the scripture true, 
Since that foretold such characters as you. 

Nor Hume, nor Paine, nor Godwin, nor VoltairCj^ 
With all their rhapsodies, and learned care, 
Have struck a line from Revelation's page, 
Nor shown us aught, but their malicious rage^ 
They have, indeed, defii'd it with their froth. 
But jewel-like it holds its native worth. 

Let demons rage, and let all nature quake, 
Volcanos bellow, and the mountains shake. 
Old ocean roar, convulsion rend the ground, 
And wide destruction spread her terrors round. 
The sun in darkness, and the moon in blood, 
Proclaim the vengeance of an angry God, 
The reeling planets from their orbits stray. 
And falling stars augment the s^'c di. nay. 
Let " final ruin" heav'n and earth assail. 
One jot nor tittle of the law shall fail. 
The Book of books, engrav'd by God's right hand, 
An everlasting monument shall stand, 
Fix'd on a base, which hell caanot o'erturn, 
" Impress'd on leaves which Omar cannot bum ;" 
Its use completed in the world below, 
And all its succours to the sons of wo. 
Amongst the stores Jehovah shall ordain, 
In heav'ns archives, forever shall remain, 

FINIS* 



Lot SV 




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